


Ebasit

by AuditoryCheesecake



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bull Has The Anchor, Bull/Dorian is endgame, Chapter 6 is Demands of the Qun, Chapter 9 is Adamant, F/M, Identity Crisis Ahoy, M/M, Significant Names, Slow Burn, Story Told Through Snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-08-29 02:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16734897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake
Summary: The Iron Bull had brought his Chargers to observe Divine Justinia's Conclave, at the Qun's orders. During a solo patrol of the Temple of Sacred Ashes,somethinghappened, though no one seems to be able to tell him what. Now, he has a glowing hole in his hand, an army of scared fanatics looking to him for answers, and no contact with his superiors back in Par Vollen.Part character study, part overdeveloped "what if" scenario, this exploration puts Bull in the middle-- and front-- of the Inquisition as he struggles with identity, leadership, andso manysecrets.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a mild day for Haven. Melting snow had made the rough training grounds even rougher, and his boots are covered in mud. He stands in front of Josephine’s desk, very conscious of the dirt, and waits as she sits and writes a letter.

She finishes the flourish at the end of a sentence and looks up at him. “A question, my Lord Herald.” 

“More people wanting to know exactly how we’re going to fix the sky?” he asks, and she smiles, wry.

Still, she hesitates. “Do you believe in the Maker?”

“No,” he tells her. “That’s not how I was raised.”

She seems to take that at face value. He doesn’t plan on telling anyone that he still lives under the Qun, even here the in snowy, Chant-covered South, but he wonders if she might suspect.

“Leliana would have tried to sing the Chant to you, once.” Josephine caps her inkwell and puts down her quill. “And there are those who believe you were sent to turn us from Andraste. They believe just as fervently as those who hold you to be her chosen advocate.”

He sees the question that she is leading up to. “You want my permission to play up the holy side of things?”

She spreads her hands eloquently, encompassing the unpaid bills on her desk, the water seeping in through the gaps in the mortar, and the hungry army of farmers outside the walls of the Chantry. 

“What if I say no?”

“Then I will tell them you are a good man doing your best to help us. If you do not believe you are sent by Andraste, then nothing good will come of letting that be our official stance.” She shakes her head, making the candlelight play on her gold necklace. It looks heavy. “There are some lines that should not be crossed.”

“What do you believe?” he asks.

It takes her a moment to answer, and he sees her cheeks darken as she shuffles paper around on her desk. “I do not think it to be a coincidence, that you are here, with magic no one else can use, when we are in need.”

He flexes the fingers of his left hand, the green crackling. He tries to think of it as just another weapon in his arsenal, but rarely succeeds. “Tell them what you think they need to hear.”

“I would not force you to mouth the Chant of Light when it means nothing to you,” she says, a stubborn set to her jaw.

“If it was just about what I wanted, Boss, I wouldn’t be here at all.” He shrugs. “But I am here, and I have a role that no one else can fill. I’ll do what I need to. You do what you need to, too.”

Maybe it’s stupid, not to tell them the whole truth. They’re calling themselves the Inquisition, after all. But until the Qun reaches out to him, he’ll lie as low as he can. They told him to keep an eye on the Conclave, he’ll keep an eye on this too, and wait for instructions.

 

He remembers his first assignment, those four months in Par Vollen, learning to teach under the watchful gaze of an older Tamassran. He'd been Ashkaari then, and everything had been clear and peaceful, surrounded by the miracle of growing things, tending the great gardens that fed the city with a team of Imekari mirroring every movement, sharing every moment of laughter.

Until Fenaaq’s magic had erupted. No one had been harmed besides a few frostbitten carrots, and Ashkaari had held the child in trembling arms until both their eyes were dry. When all the Imekari were asleep, Askhaari had gone to Tama and told her of the day’s events. 

And so Fenaaq was sent away.

Two weeks later, Ashkaari had returned to Tama, wracked with guilt and needing guidance. They had talked through the night, and when they parted, he did not go to wake the children, though it was nearing dawn. Instead, he took the first steps on the path to Seheron.

He knows that Fenaaq had never truly had another path, that nothing he could have done could have prevented it. Fenaaq had always been Saarebas, had always been dangerous, had always been destined to be a weapon. Asit tal-eb.

 

He send his Chargers out on jobs without him. He has them accompany builders, and healers, and the caravans of supplies they send to the refugees that dot the landscape in weary groups. He can’t be everywhere at once, but he can trust Krem to do the right thing. He sends them with blankets, and sugar, and toys for children. He tells them to offer lessons to everyone who wants to hold a sword, and to give out all the poultices and bandages they can. Stitches can always make more.

 

Josephine marvels at the amount of paper he asks her for. He knows it is seen as a luxury down here, just like the little sugar taffies he wraps in the scraps. But things have value beyond what gold you can give a merchant for them.

He fills two pockets with the candies, whenever he goes into the field. Whenever he fishes one out to give to a wide-eyed little elf or dumbstruck human child, they’re always warm and sticky, and sometimes they might have a speck of blood on them. But the children always take them, and a few even remember to say thank you.

“I have discovered your secret,” Josephine tells him one day. His heart almost stops. “Leliana is still sure you’re a spy, and Cassandra thinks you will crush the next horse you ride, but I know the truth. You have a soft spot for children.”

She laughs, and he laughs with her, hoping she can’t hear the edge in it.

“I will not betray your confidence,” she says. He smiles and pours her more tea.

When she leaves, he moves the reports he’s written. He fishes them out of the moldering straw mattress shoved in the closet and tries to fold them even smaller. He puts them in a coin purse, and fills it the rest of the way with sand, then puts that in the little box Vivienne gifted him for his vitaar. There’s not much space left in the bag, but maybe he’ll be able to make a drop soon. 

Maybe if they know he’s still loyal, the Ben Hassrath will give him something back.

If Josephine finds out the truth buried in that little bag, she’s less likely to kill him outright than Leliana. He could at least try to spin it, try to tell her a connection to the Qun would be beneficial to this little Inquisition. The Qun could be a powerful ally, either overtly or behind the scenes. All they would want was free access to the Inquisition’s information networks, and an Arvaarad at his side at all times, ready to strike the blow.

He weighs the bag, sand and paper, in his hand. There’s not really a way this doesn’t end with him dead.


	2. Chapter 2

Stitches was the one who had put together “the Chief was inside the Temple when things went south” and “a Qunari walked out of the Fade and he either murdered the Divine or was chosen by Andraste” and come up with “this sound like exactly the sort of bullshit we should have expected.” Skinner was the one who had got the rest of his boys through the door to Leliana. Rocky had been the first one to hug him, and Dalish had been the first one to punch him for making them think he was dead. Krem had cried the most, but he’d done it privately.

He’d only had one real question for them, when the keg he’d opened for them finally ran dry. Would they stay with him, through whatever the fuck this was going to be? Grim had been the one to answer, with one of his looks. Josephine had smiled and called him eloquent, and that, more than anything else, had sealed the deal.

They still call him Chief, but everyone else has started to call him Herald. Even Sera, though she says “your worship” with a sideways smirk that almost makes it better. When he was the Iron Bull-- and he sort of still wants to be-- he wielded the name like a weapon. The Iron Bull, just a thing, just a tool, just a battering ram pointed at whatever he wanted, whatever the Qun wanted. Now, the Herald of Andraste is being wielded, and he doesn’t truly know against what.

He’s not the Iron Bull any more, not really. He doesn’t remember what happened in the Fade but it’s a dividing line between _then_ and _now_. Like when he began training as Ben Hassrath. Like when he gave himself over to the redeucators. The old name no longer fits right.

Josephine brings him tea and gossip along with reports of the injured from Mother Giselle and the quartermaster’s endless requests for more material. Leliana brings him secrets, shares stories from her time in the Fifth Blight. He’d been on Seheron by then, not interested in the outside world. He wonders if Leliana finds dangerous things on purpose, so that she can shape the stories that will be told about them. Cullen brings him troop numbers and news from the rank and file. There is no word from the Qun.

 

They find a Warden, at Leliana’s suggestion. They go to Redcliffe for the same reason. He wonders if he trusts her too much, if he’s placing her in a role she should not have. She could be a left hand, an Arvaarad, someone to do what’s necessary. He’s always had a soft spot for redheads.

But if he’s going to use the fact that they're calling him Andraste's chosen one, he needs the Chantry, and for that he needs to get the Templars in line. An army of trained warriors, dependent on and obedient to their superiors even under the stress of Lambert’s tantrum in Val Royeux? He can’t let them go unsupervised. The mages can be dealt with later, with the Templars as his tool.

That’s the idea, at least. The Templar’s keep is full of monsters. A demon steals his fucking face and claws at his memories and it wants, so _badly_ , to be him. What sort of a life must it live, to want his instead?

Especially when everything it does in its twisted fake future is-- not so different from what the Qun will do. The Qun will have little use for Sera or Vivienne. Had she been born to it, Josephine could have risen far, but she would never be a willing Viddithari, Skinner likewise. Dalish, killed outright. Krem, Cullen, Blackwall, Cassandra, all pressed to labor, quamek undoubtedly a liberal tool. Destruction lies down every path, but he grits his teeth against this.

A second demon guides him out, brings him face to face with something he can hit. It’s cathartic, that stabbing the envy demon enough times brings it down. It’s reassuring, to cleave into his own chest and see the demon falter. It cannot be stronger _as_ him than it would be if it _wore_ him, but if a demon took him over, maybe it wouldn’t even be his problem anymore.

He crushes the thing’s backward kneecaps and puts his axe in its face. He feels better, once it’s dead.

It tips his hand maybe, to gather the Templars to him and hold their leash like an Arvaarad. But their Order, though not his own, is comfortable and easy to understand. They are soldiers, they obey commands. If anyone thinks it’s odd, they don’t say it. Cassandra gives him a nod of approval. He turns his back on the demon’s corpse and leads his men to Haven for the drink he so badly needs.

Comfort does not find him.

 

He hates the snow. His leg feels like it’s on fire and the only light comes from his own damn hand. Nothing holy about it after all, and that’s almost a relief. There’s nothing worse than being a pawn in someone else’s game, even this Maker’s. At least now he knows that there’s nothing controlling him outside of his own loyalty to his people.

But the Qun is cold comfort as the wind sharpens and the night drags on. He’s alone now on the mountainside, trying to follow the cold embers left behind by what he hopes was his Inquisition, but he’s been alone for longer. The Qun hasn’t protected or guided him since before the Conclave got blown to the void. The Qun has given him _nothing_ in months, not even a sign they’ve left him to his own madness. If he’s been named Tal Vashoth without his knowledge-- but even with the snow seeping into his boots and his breath forming icicles on his beard, he’s not mad. He’s not mad, just lost.

When he sees Krem coming towards him in the snow, backlit by the fires of the Inquisition’s camp, no sight has ever been more precious.

 

The castle Solas finds for them is more defensible than Haven, and that alone is worth the cold stone and the flat square corners and the statues of Andraste everywhere.

Vivienne keeps tabs on his mental wellbeing, trying to convince him none of their losses were his fault. As if he hasn’t been in command of ten kiths in Seheron, where scheduling patrols five minutes late could lose you valuable lives. As if he doesn’t know, precisely, the price of a life. But her concern carries enough weight to stuff him into the first real shirt he’s worn since that stint in Serault. He’ll never tell anyone, but the mountain air in Skyhold is colder than he was comfortable with, and that’s the reason the shirt stays on for more than one day.

 

Josephine has to convince him to let the Vint stay. First she councils clemency as payment for the advance warning he’d brought to Haven, however miniscule. And then, Lord Pavus has information and a fresh perspective, she says. They’ve been drinking brandy together, and the Vint has made her laugh her bright, bell-like laugh more than once. They make a pretty picture, silk and jewels on dark skin in acres of pale Fereldans and brown wool, whispering over their teacups. It makes him suspicious.

To make her happy, because he needs to keep her happy, he listens to what the Vint has to say. Some of it’s the crap he expected: Altus this and magic that, but there’s something worthwhile underneath it all.

Josephine laughs when he tells her that, on day that the Vint’s not in her office. “Not so very far beneath,” she says, with a particular tilt of her head that speaks volumes.

“Don’t think you’re his type, Boss, sorry to disappoint you.”

She laughs more. “No indeed. But _you_ are, my Lord Herald.”

“No,” he says, sharper than he intended, and Josephine’s laughter stops with a little cough. “I don’t know him, I definitely don’t trust him. And I’m not interested in the games he’d want to play. Beastly conqueror, savage invader-- I get enough of that dealing with your nobles.”

She puts a gentle hand on his own. “I do not think you give Lord Pavus enough credit, but I understand your concern.”

He grunts and turns back to his tea.

“For what it’s worth,” she says, “I see none of that in you. A mask you wear, perhaps, but not truly you.”

He almost lets himself be comforted. But she doesn’t see the reports to the Qun either, folded tight and in a hollowed out book on the shelf.


	3. Chapter 3

“You need a drink,” Krem tells him. “You need to take off those specs and put down those papers and come to the tavern.”

It’s only taken Krem two months in Skyhold to get to this point.

“We’re in a meeting, Lieutenant.” Josephine’s tone is just barely acidic. She must be pissed.

“You’ve been in a meeting since noon bell, my Lady, begging your pardon. Supper’s come and went. If he gives himself one of his headaches because he’s been squinting at your tiny handwriting for hours, he’ll be no use to anyone for at least a day.”

It’s compelling. He takes off the spectacles. “Come with us,” he offers. Kolsun knows Josephine could use a break as well.

“I have work to do,” she says. “So do you.”

“Krem’s right.” He stands, ignoring her frown. “Feel free to stay here, I know you like the chairs.”

“Thank you, Lord Inquisitor.” She looks searchingly at Krem. “I believe I shall. Good day, Lieutenant.”

“Evening,” Krem replies, a bit too curt to be polite. And so they are dismissed.

Krem raises his eyebrows as they head down the stairs. “Since when do you let people in your quarters without you there, Chief?”

“Since I know Red’s already snooped around all of it and Josephine knows everything she does.” His newest reports are wedged between stones on the outer wall as high as he can reach. Leliana’s simply too short to even see them. “And if she nods off, all the better. She never takes a day off.”

“Hm.” Krem says nothing the rest of the way.

When they open the door to the Herald’s rest, a cheer goes up from his Chargers and the company in general. He strolls up to the bar and orders a round for every person in the tavern, and it keeps the servers busy, but it’s the least he can do after dragging all of them out here to this blasted cold mountain.

Sera’s wedged between Dalish and Rocky, and her laughter sets the tone for the rest of the night. They drink and sing and he only spends a couple minutes wondering if any of the new faces around him are Ben Hassrath.

 

They fight Templars. They fight Venatori. They fight dragons, and giants, and Orlesians. He sits on a throne and makes decisions that might change the course of the world.

The Qun remains silent.

 

One afternoon, instead of the usual stacks of reports, Josephine brings a bottle of good Starkhaven whiskey to their daily meeting. “Forgive me for being indelicate, my Lord Herald, but I have a proposition for you,” is how she starts.

She finishes straddled over his thighs, his hands secured loosely behind his back, wrapped in the golden chain she wears. 

It’s a relief. She’s not a Tamassran, but she knows tricks just as good. It’s the first time he’s felt like the weight of the world isn’t resting on his shoulders with every breath. She commands him, sweet as the little bell lillies that grow in Seheron summers, choking out even the grass under them. All he needs to do is obey.

It’s so easy to sink into it, find the parts that are comforting and familiar and hold them tight. She doesn’t even ask him to speak, just asks simple questions can be answered with head or hand movements. Her fingers slick inside him, her lips on his skin, her chains around his arms, he’s nothing more than his body.

 

Fighting is still bloody. He strains against the weight of his axe, carving a simple path forward. Enemies broken down to their simplest parts: hands, heads, spines, guts. Bones are easy to break and don’t require him to smile or lie. They want to kill him, he kills them first.

Vivienne gets sick of it. She’s not, at her heart, the type of warrior who can fight forever without tiring. She says she’ll serve the Inquisition on the front lines if she must, but she’s just as effective leveraging her skills and influence at Josephine’s side. The day he comes to ask her to go to the Hissing Wastes for a month, he can actually see her hesitate before she agrees. 

Mages have unique advantages in the field, but he can’t stand the way Solas talks about the Qun or the questions he asks, so he goes to Pavus. He’s never actually seen the Vint in the field since the Elder One attacked them at Haven, but it’s worth a shot.

He’s not sure that Pavus can handle it, at first. Pampered brats aren’t his first choice for the sort of work he does. Blackwall and Cassandra are trained warriors. Sera and Varric are scrappy and stubborn, and Cole never seems to get tired, though that’s not exactly comforting. But Pavus holds his own. He complains constantly, but never falls behind or takes especially stupid risks. The same talk he gave his new Stens on Seheron-- you’re worth more alive than bleeding out on the ground, everyone needs to obey commands and be where they’re supposed to be if anyone’s going to make it out the other side of the fight-- sorts out most of the stupidity. 

Vints are Vints are Vints though, and he can’t stop Pavus from being so flashy with his magic or expecting his barriers to take every hit, strong as they are. But, after a couple weeks in the Wastes, he has to admit that Josephine was right. The Vint is, after all, an asset. He’s done stranger things than trust an Altus to watch his back in a fight, these last few months.


	4. Chapter 4

He was named Inquisitor at the end of Harvestmere, and the anniversary of that sneaks up on him. Another month with no word from the Qun. More than a year now. He still writes his reports, but he’s never sent them.

He scans every new face for something familiar. Any elf could be Viddathari, any vashoth Ben Hassrath, but no one gives any sign that he can recognize. No one finds him late at night when he stands on the walls and stares at the swirling green hole in the sky, not with a knife or a word of comfort.

Not often at least.

“Maker’s breath, it’s cold out here.”

“Pavus.” He’s not pleased to be interrupted.

“My Lord Inquisitor.” Pavus is coming from the keep, a bottle of wine in his hand. “I did not pilfer this from your personal cellar with the intention of sharing, but I believe that somewhere in that contract Lady Montilyet made me sign there’s a clause about not letting you stare modlily into the distance on deserted, ice-cold battlements in the middle of the night.”

He looks back at the Breach. It looks the same as before.

“Or I suppose you can keep brooding until you freeze solid. We could always do with another scowling sculpture around here.” Pavus turns towards his room above the tavern.

“Sure,” he says, a surprise to them both. “I’ll share my wine with you. Just don’t call me ‘my Lord.’”

“Ah, the crown weighs heavily, does it?” Pavus’s smirk is equal parts commiseration and mockery. “Very well, Inquisitor.”

He follows Pavus along the battlements. “The Iron Bull,” he says. “That’s what I was called before.”

“That’s just as much of a title as Lord Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste!” Pavus laughs. “ _The_ Iron Bull. That’s a weapon, not a person.”

And what can he say to that? That he prefers to be a weapon, prefers to be a tool of the Qun? They haven’t sent him a single message in a year and a half. 

“What did your mother call you?” Pavus asks as he unlocks his door. “I doubt very much you were born with those horns, hard as it is to imagine you without them.”

“I was born under the Qun,” he says.

Pavus freezes, door partially open. “I didn’t know that.”

He flexes the fingers of his left hand, trying to work the pain out of them. The thing on his palm spits a little tongue of green fire. “Yeah, I don’t talk about it much.”

“Try at all.” Pavus’s room is simply furnished, like most rooms in Skyhold, but holds more books and more blankets than is common. The bed looks more like a nest. “Cassandra told me you were vashoth, but she never said _Tal_. I would remember that.”

They’re alone in the dead of night. This Vint is not exactly beloved outside of his circle, which is Sera, Cassandra, the Arcanist, and some of the librarians. His back is turned. There is potential to keep this secret, even if told.

“I’m not.”

The silence is immense. Pavus’s back is as tense as his own, probably conjuring a fireball as silently as he can.

“I’m Ben Hassrath. I came South as a spy. I was never supposed to get caught up in all this shit.”

Pavus turns to him. There’s no magic in his hands, but that means little. “No, I imagine you were not.”

They stare at each other.

“Are you going to kill me now?” Pavus asks. “Does Cassandra know? Does _Josephine_ know?”

“No,” he says.

Pavus shakes his head, incredulous. “You’re many things, but I never thought stupid was one of them. Why in the Maker’s name have you told me this? You don’t even like me.”

He shrugs.

“Well, you take this bottle. I need something stronger than wine.” Pavus opens the bureau next to the bed and retrieves an unlabeled bottle. “This, I will not share.”

They sit in the mismatched chairs, both forgoing glasses of any sort.

Pavus downs a healthy swig of whatever it is he has. “Alright. What should I call you, if not Inquisitor or the Iron Bull? It’s my understanding that Ben Hassrath is not a title so much as a group. Are you Tallis?”

He shakes his head, surprised that Pavus knows even that. “On Seheron--”

“Seheron,” Pavus mutters. “Venhedis.”

“On Seheron, I was Hissrad.” He takes a sip of his wine. “But now… I haven’t had any communication from the Ben Hassrath since before we came to Skyhold.”

“So you’re not just a spy, you’re a spy at sea. Maker.” Pavus takes another swallow. “Are you sure you’re not going to kill me?”

“Don’t make me change my mind,” he says. But it’s freeing, to be known. “My Tama called me Ashkaari.”

“My governess called me a holy terror,” Pavus offers. “My fourth one, at least.”

He snorts. “Poor woman.” 

“No, my parents paid her very handsomely, I assure you. Otherwise she would not have stayed for three whole months.” 

He has to laugh at that, and the tension eases slightly. Pavus smiles, a little different from his usual smirk

“Ashkaari,” he tries. It sits oddly on his Vintish tongue. “Then you should call me Dorian.”

 

It changes things, but not as much as he thought. Dorian swears himself to silence, and never calls him Ashkaari where anyone else can hear. The Inquisition makes ready to visit the Empress of Orlais.

 

Suddenly, a week before they leave, he’s not the only one with a secret. Blackwall is not Blackwall, and his advisors are in an uproar. Cullen is torn, but willing to be swayed in either direction. Leliana knew from the beginning. Josephine feels betrayed, and after pacing his apartments for a few hours, decides that Rainer is seeking absolution, and they should not interfere.

He and Leliana do anyway.

“You should tell her,” Leliana says as they plan the jailbreak. “It’s gone on long enough.”

Would she be able to kill him? If she moved fast enough, perhaps.

“Jealous, Red?”

She ignores that. “Josie is liable to get attached, even when a relationship begins casually. I have told her the same. She has given you what you need, but she needs stability. Devotion. No divided loyalties.”

He grunts. “Say it plain.”

“Like knows like, Hissrad. The Qun has not called on you yet, but they will. Regarding the Rift, I believe their goals will align with the Inquisition’s, but after that is dealt with? Do you believe they will permit you to go on as you have been? Do not put Josephine through the humiliation of casting her aside when you return to them.”

“What do you know of the Qun?” he demands.

“Enough,” she says. “I told you of Sten. You are not the same man he was, but I know what loyalty looks like. He was also adrift from the Qun, and it pained him. He went back when he was given the chance. I believe you will, as well.”

It’s not what she intended, that he be comforted by that. “Never occured to you to bring this up before?” he asks mildly.

“It was not necessary. But I see now how badly this will hurt Josie, if you let her think you are someone she can keep. She is an innocent in love, and does not know when or where lines should be drawn.”

“Hey,” he interjects. “We’re not in love.”

She rolls her eyes. “How can you be certain she feels the same?”

“There’s no love under the Qun.”

Leliana gives him a flat look. “But she does not know that you are Qunari. It is not right for you to let her think you can offer something not in your power to give.”

“Josephine’s a grown woman, Red. she can make her own decisions.”

She frowns at him some more. “Do not make her any promises that you do not intend to keep,” is the last she says of it.

 

With the idea in his mind now, it’s impossible for him not to notice when their expectations do not match exactly. Some Orlesian gives him a rare, expensive flower, but after two minutes with it on his desk his nose is itching and his eyes are watering, so he brings it to Josephine.

Despite the plant’s attack on his senses, he still sees the flash of discomfort in her face when she takes it from him. And then remembers that flowers are supposed to be romantic gifts. She says he might have offended the noble, giving the gift away so quickly, but he thinks she’s more concerned with the connotations of him giving it to her.

She never accepts his invitations to spend time with his Chargers in the Tavern, and when she needs to leave Skyhold, she always has a guard chosen and prepared before he even knows she’s heading out.

To him it seems like reasonable professional distance-- they’d probably get sick of each other if they were together every hour of the day-- but perhaps she’s protecting herself against the very things Leliana warned him about.

 

And then he meets Josephine’s younger sister at Halamshiral. Siblings are _nothing_ like the age-mates in a Tamassran’s care. Families are nothing like he thought.

“I apologize for Yvette,” she says as they lie in bed, her head pillowed on his chest. “She’s never known how to ask a delicate question.”

“She’s a nice kid,” he tells her. “Genuinely nice, too, which is always refreshing.”

Josephine sighs. “I shudder to imagine what stories she will bring back to my family about us.”

“Worried she’ll embellish?” He curls a lock of hair around his finger.

“Embellish, or get carried away with her own impressions. She can find intrigue and romance anywhere when she sets her mind to it.” Josephine sits up. “And there is both to be seen in our friendship, from a certain angle.”

Well, that solves the problem of how he’ll broach the subject. “And what angle do you see it from?”

“We complement each other,” she says cautiously, and then trails off.

“We have fun,” he agrees.

Josephine takes a deep breath. “In my mother’s latest letter, she mentioned betrothal arrangements. I had thought, until we spoke tonight, that they regarded Yvette.”

“But it’s your betrothal.”

She nods. Her usual eloquence seems to have deserted her. “I have a duty to my family.”

“I get it,” he says. 

“If I am betrothed, then it’s only proper that I-- oh.” She blushes. “You do?”

“I’ve never been betrothed, but I understand responsibility.” He smiles at her and tucks her hair behind her ear. “And I have a feeling I wouldn’t be your parents’ first choice for a son-in-law.”

“I don’t want you to be hurt,” she insists. “I’m sorry if you feel… betrayed, or--”

It's the irony that's painful, after what Leliana said to him. “Hey, nothing so dramatic. We had a good run, but we both knew going into this that it wasn’t a forever thing.”

She nods, and they sit quietly for a few minutes. The fancy clock above the fireplace chimes the hour.

“I should return to my room,” she says when the noise ends.

“You can stay if you like,” he offers. It has been nice not to wake up alone. She’s so far removed from his nightmares, the demons and dead Qunari and burning orphanages, that it’s grounding to see her face. That she’s a heavy enough sleeper that she never noticed them has also been a boon.

Josephine touches the side of his face softly. “I’d better not. Goodnight, my Lord.”

When the door closes behind her, he’s alone again. More than anything, it’s a relief. If the Qun calls him, he can answer without fear of hurting anyone. He’ll be free to go back North, and leave no one worse off than when he met them.


	5. Chapter 5

He’s too busy to take any of the offers that suddenly appear when word gets around that he and Josephine have parted ways. Even Sera tries to get him drunk, certain that he’s heartbroken and refusing to admit it, but there’s no secret sadness hiding in him that she can coax out. His only secret is locked tight in the false bottom of a drawer in his desk, ink fading and edges curling.

Leliana gives him the cold shoulder, since he apparently did it all wrong. According to her, he should have laid it all out on the table and answered every question Josephine had about the Qun and his role and whether he had been lying to her the whole time. But he was still lying to everyone in the Inquisition, and now the Orlesian Court and some Gray Wardens as well, so what did it matter if he’s still lying to her?

It is simply what he does, what he has done every day since he had proved himself incapable of being a Tamassran. Two people besides Leliana know the truth of his role under the Qun. And he might trust Krem, and even Dorian, but the Qun does not.

 

None of this matters when he finally gets to fight a dragon. She’s ten dragons for the price of one, since she has a brood of hatchlings, and babies or no, they each put up more of a fight than most humans.

It’s a rush. More pure feeling than he’s had in ages, just the simple focus of axe in hand, axe against scale, blood in the air.

“You know,” Dorian says acidly, “I maybe be very skilled at casting barriers, and you’ve certainly given me plenty of practice, but it’s still not advisable to stand directly in front of a dragon and let her breath fire on you.”

His skin is still prickling with the heat of it. “But it’s so much more awesome when I stab her right in the mouth!”

“Yeah!” Sera shouts across the field, then goes back to poking at a dragonling corpse and cackling. He knows the feeling.

He watches the smirk that Dorian tries to suppress. He’s not particularly successful. “You have an axe, what you’re doing isn’t properly stabbing, you know.”

“Hey, I don’t tell you what to call your spells. And I’m fine, see? Not a singe in sight.” He turns his hands over between them. There’s a cut on his arm and his leg is aching, and of course the thing on his hand makes it hard to see past the green, but all things considered he’s practically unscathed.

Dorian crosses his arms and frowns, unimpressed. “Not for lack of trying.” 

“You need something, Vint? Or are you just standing between and my dragon for kicks?”

Dorian steps a little closer. “Ashkaari,” he says softly, “ _please_ don’t take the full brunt of dragon fire again. What was it you told me the first time you took me out to those blighted Wastes? You’re worth more alive than bleeding out on the ground? Substitute burnt to a crisp, smoking and sizzling, and follow your own advice.”

He grimaces at the image. “I should never have told you to call me that.”

“Probably not,” Dorian agrees. “But look at it from my point of view. If you get yourself flambeed, how am I supposed to tell Cremisius that he won’t hear another one of your terrible puns?”

He pushes past Dorian and runs his hands over the scales of the dragon’s neck. They’re still hot, like a coal fresh from the firepit. Nevertheless, a shiver runs up the back of his neck under Dorian’s relentless judgemental scowl. “Fine.”


	6. Chapter 6

Leliana hands him the letter across the war table before Josephine or Cullen get there. It’s not an act of mercy. He only has time to recognize the hand his name is written in-- and which name it is-- before they come through the door, already debating which carpets to put in the great hall or where to put all the statues of dogs the Fereldan nobles won’t stop gifting them. For all Cullen says he doesn’t care, he has strong opinions about how their keep should look.

Leliana lets them argue, and lets him stew, for far too long. “I have received correspondence,” she says in a lull, “from an old contact of mine.”

Josephine perks up. “About Duchess Tremayne’s Wintersend punch? She implied she might have her chef send me the recipe when we met at the Winter Palace.”

“Alas, the Duchess’s punch still eludes us.” Leliana retrieves the letter from his numb fingers. “I met Tallis in Kirkwall, not long after the Fifth Blight. She has reached out to me again with an offer from her superiors.”

Both Cullen and Josephine stare at her.

“The Arishok himself signed this letter.” His hand jerks like lightning struck it, away from the paper she holds. “The Qun offers us an opportunity, a proving of sorts, with an alliance to gain.”

“Since when does the Qun care about us?” Cullen asks. Josephine is silent, but she meets his eye across the table. Her mouth is a tight line. How much has Leliana told her? Perhaps it doesn’t even matter.

“There is a Venatori smuggling operation on the Storm Coast,” Leliana says. “The Qun wants our help disrupting it.”

He’s silent for the length of the meeting, staring at the Storm Coast’s twisting line on the map. He doesn’t know if it’s true that the Arishok signed the letter, and what weight exactly it would carry if he had.

It’s a test, more likely a trap. They want to know where his loyalties lie. So do Josephine and Leliana.

 

He takes the letter and leaves when Leliana is done talking. He sits at his desk and stares at it until Kara comes in to clean and light the fire for the evening. She hesitates at the doorway; he’s not usually in his apartments at this time of day, and she, like so many of his followers, has trouble meeting his eye.

He leaves her to it and takes the letter to the tavern, picking up a mug of ale from Cabot and making his way up the stairs to the empty attic. He thinks really hard about wanting to be alone, and Cole doesn’t show up. That’s one victory, at least.

It’s short, as straightforward as Leliana had made it seem. He picks a team from his troops, they meet up with the Ben Hassrath who’ve been monitoring the smugglers, and cover the beach so the dreadnaught can move in and take care of the ship. They perform well, the Inquisition has a powerful new ally.

No matter which way he turns it, there’s no cipher or code, and though _Hissrad_ is written on the outside, the letter itself is addressed to Leliana. 

 

Sera, Cassandra, and Vivienne go with him and his Chargers to the Storm Coast. He looks back at the castle as they leave the gates, and he thinks he sees Dorian standing outside Leliana’s raven coop. Something bright catches the light, at least.

They ride fast, to intercept the Venatori. It’s pissing rain when they reach the rendezvous, and they dismount warily. The camp is set up in familiar Qunari rows, but it seems empty. A facade of normalcy. Bait.

Gatt steps out of the rain, startling Sera. “Hissrad,” he says with a little nod. He’s gotten taller, put on some muscle. He watches them all with open suspicion.

“Gatt.” He nods back. “You’re off Seheron then.”

“Promoted,” Gatt says proudly. “I saw Venak before I left. She’s in the priesthood now.”

“Good for her,” he says. He means it. His chest aches thinking of Par Vollen. He can see the roofs and gardens as clear as day. Par Vollen doesn’t change much, year to year. The farmers rotate crops through the fields and the building get fresh coats of paint, old street signs and curtains are replaced and imekari grow their horns, but the city remains itself. That’s more than can be said of him.

“Tell us about these smugglers,” Cassandra cuts in. “What do we know of their numbers? Your reports were sparse.”

 

The trap is sprung as he stands on a bluff, watching Venatori forces making their way to his Chargers.

“They have to hold that position, Hissrad.” Gatt is almost shouting to be heard over the rain and the waves. Dalish is favoring her right arm. Grim lost his helmet. They’re scrambling into the defensive formation they developed years ago, but people are missing. “The dreadnaught needs--”

He calls the retreat before Gatt draws another breath. He grips the horn with his left hand, the green glow seeping through his glove like blood. He sounds it again. Krem leads the Chargers away from the beach. The Vint mages ready their spells as the dreadnought rolls closer.

The rain pounds against the ground and his bare shoulders. The waves hit the sand.

He stares at the sea. Gatt lunges forward and Cassandra grabs his shoulder. He shakes her off but doesn’t move again.

“I told them you’d never go Tal Vashoth, Hissrad!” He can’t meet Gatt’s eye. “I told them to trust you. That it didn’t matter how long you’d been out in the cold, you’d do the right thing when we called.”

“It’s been two years, Gatt.” He looks down at his friend. “Two years, and not a single message.”

“I waited my whole _life_ for the Qun,” Gatt snarls. “And I didn’t even know what I was waiting for! You were the one who saved me, you showed me the way. How can you turn your back on it now?”

“You abandoned me first.” They’re all watching him. There will be fallout from this, but he can’t stop. The dam is broken. The water cannot return. “The Qun abandoned me first.”

“These Bas have corrupted you.” Gatt swings around to pin Vivienne with a furious glare. “This witch has ensnared your mind with blood magic. Come with me, Hissrad. Come home. The educators will free you from her control.”

His fingers are numb around the horn. “No, Gatt.”

He watches Gatt’s face twist in a grimace. He holds his hands out, palms up. “Hissrad--”

Sera moves at his back. “That’s not his fuckin’ name, yeah?”

The wind howls between them. He does not move. Gatt spits at his feet and leaves.

“That’s not his name!” Sera shouts after him. She’s right.


	7. Chapter 7

There are questions, after, and he doesn’t answer them. He rides ahead of the group back to Skyhold, and Vivienne stops anyone from following him.

He comes into the castle just after sunset, when nearly everyone is in the mess or the tavern for the evening meal. He skirts around the edge of the courtyard to stable his horse, and then takes the long way around the battlements back towards his apartment.

Cullen’s office is empty, but he’s brought up short by the light flickering behind Dorian’s door. It’s a preferable route to down and through the tavern or courtyard, but he wishes Dorian were elsewhere all the same.

He knocks on the door.

“It’s open,” Dorian calls. His back is turned, and from the looks of it he’s cross-indexing something in three different books, a whisp gliding over the pages providing light. 

“Evening,” he says.

The Vint looks up at the sound of Bull's voice. “Maker, you look a fright.” He unfolds himself from his uncomfortable-looking position on the chair. “Sit down, I’ll make you some tea.”

“I was going to my room.”

“With all due respect, my Lord Inquisitor, you don’t look like you could walk a single step.”

He sinks down into the chair Dorian pushes towards him. “No Lord,” he mutters.

“I had the box right here here yesterday,” Dorian says. “Do you like assam?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Well, you’re getting some.”

It seems too short a time, but Dorian soon presents him with a steaming cup. “I hastened it with a small spell,” he admits. “Don’t tell anyone, I’ve been maintaining moral superiority about the purity of my tea for months, ever since the Circle mages told me they’ve developed _instant_ blends. But this seemed like the sort of thing that needed to happen quickly.”

The tea is strong, almost bitter. It reminds him of the beaches south of Par Vollen, and the hills inland. The gardens.

“We grew assam in the lowlands by the sea,” he says softly. “My Tama mixed her own blend. Tasted different than this. Darker.”

“Well, desperate times.”

“No, it’s good,” he tells Dorian. “It’s different, yeah. But it still reminds me of her.” 

Rain begins to tap against the roof. He hadn’t even noticed the clouds. “Madame de Fer sent a raven to Leliana earlier today,” Dorian says.

He doesn’t respond.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Dorian asks.

“Not really.”

“All right.” Dorian packs his books back up. “Stay as long as you like, Ashkaari. I mean it.”

No one will look for him here, he reasons. When he finishes the tea, he leans his head against the back of the chair and falls asleep.

 

The sun is bright.

“Don’t you have curtains?” he asks Dorian.

“I bought assam instead,” Dorian says from the bed. “It’s been a better investment.”

He levers himself slowly to his feet. “Friggin’ stupid.”

“A man of your stature spending the night in that chair? I agree.”

He stretches his back, groaning. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Ah, the immortal words of regret.” Dorian’s hair is ruffled and his face is bare. “Next time, just sleep in the bed like a normal person. I won’t bite.”

“Not even if I ask nicely?” he asks, because it would be nice to pretend that he’s not so immeasurably different from the man he was two sunrises before.

“Well.” Dorian tosses his head haughtily, but his cheeks darken. “I suppose we can always negotiate terms going forwards.”

It feels strange to laugh, but it doesn’t hurt like he thought.

 

The worst part is, now that he's back in Skyhold, everything looks exactly the same. 

Josephine is at her desk and Leliana is with her ravens. The troops are camped by the lake at the base of the mountain and there are nobles in the great hall. Varric sits by the fire with his crossbow resting on the table, and there are letters to be signed and petitions to be answered. His Chargers sit in the tavern or run drills in the courtyard, singing the same songs as before.

He doesn’t let his Chargers sit still for long. _He_ can’t sit still, and he wants them where he can see them.

When they ride out, Krem always is always half a length behind him, alert and quiet. He can hear chatter in the ranks behind him, Stitches’ sly chuckle and Rocky’s meandering storytelling, but no one pushes up next to him to talk.

He leads them down into the Hinterlands, where the snows are just beginning to loosen their grip on the lower fields, pressing past dark to camp away from other Inquisition troops.

It’s only once the fires are lit and his boys are drinking the ale that has to follow Grim’s stews that he realizes that this time, Sera and Dorian have invited themselves along. They fit in well with the Chargers, and he watches Dalish and Skinner try to teach Sera one of the dances they’ve made up. Soon, a good third of the troupe is spinning each other in circles while Grim and Rocky cheerfully mangle an Orlesian folk tune.

“They’re a good lot, your Chargers.” Dorian settles down next to him. “A bit uncouth, but hearts of gold, every one.”

“Good,” Bull says, “because this week we’re on a mission of pure Andrastrian charity. Gotta soften our reputation with the common folk, according to the Boss, so we’re picking healing herbs and chasing bandits away from farm houses.”

Dorian grimaces pokes at the fire. “I’m sure Harding has some misbehaving recruits she could send here instead of you. The armor is what people will remember.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” He watches the flames jump in the wind. “I like shaking hands and kissing babies as much as I like hitting things. It’s good, to be reminded of why we’re fighting all these demons and Venatori fuckers. Don’t wanna lose sight of that.”

“Quite.”

He glances over to see Dorian watching him, instead of the fire. His expression is curious and focused, like Bull’s a book he hasn’t quite figured out yet.

He stirs the stew he hasn’t really finished yet. “You didn’t have to come, you know. Wasn’t really necessary for me to bring all my Chargers, either.”

“Perhaps my reputation could benefit from a good deed or two,” Dorian says. “I’m on the lookout for children fallen down wells, personally. That’s a classic.”

Bull chuckles. “How many people are waiting for your reports on whether I’ve gone mad yet?”

“Just Madame de Fer,” Dorian admits. “Josephine and Leliana have their own sources, and Sera’s come along to keep an eye on you herself.”

He shakes his head and sips his stew. They sit in silence for long minutes, alone while the Chargers laugh and talk. He watches his boys without really seeing them, eye tracking the movement of figures in front of the fires.

Dorian’s hand on his arm startles him. “We care, you know. No one thinks you’ll go mad.”

He stares straight ahead. “And none of you know Tal Vashoth.”

“But we do know loss. There’s not one of us who’s made it this far without losing something important, or having something taken.” The Vint is insistent, damn him. He’s practically kneeling between Bull and the fire, peering up at his face. “Grief isn’t madness, and neither is being unsure of your path.”

“It’s different for me,” he murmurs. “For Qunari, there isn’t anything except the path.”

“It’s different for everyone.”

Bull sighs. His jaw is tight and his eye is stinging from the woodsmoke. Grim’s stew isn’t sitting well, he can tell by the painful heat in his throat. “You’re a strange one, Vint.”

“So I’ve been told.” Dorian’s smile is rueful. “For what it’s worth, I think you’ve done an admirable job finding a path on your own, even before this.”

Bull roles his shoulders and looks up at the stars. “I just go where they point me.”

“Liar,” Dorian says. It stings, but it’s not a mortal wound. “If that were true, there wouldn’t be half as many people following you.”

“Following the Herald of Andraste,” he corrects.

“You think that’s who your Chargers follow?” Dorian asks. Bull can see them over his shoulder, clustered around the larger fires. “Or Sera? Do you think Vivienne puts her trust in an empty title, or in the man who bears it?”

“And who do you follow?” Bull asks.

Dorian stands and brushes the dirt from his knees. Bull finds himself looking up at him, though backlit by the fire, his face is in shadow. He holds out a hand.

“They’re playing Antivan waltzes now, or something like it.” Bull lets himself be hauled to his feet. Dorian doesn’t release his hand, trapped between their chests. His voice sounds a little breathy to Bull’s ear; he’s strong, but not so strong that it’s easy to pull Bull around. “Would you care to dance, Ashkaari?”


	8. Chapter 8

Time passes. Leliana brings him down to the dungeon, where two humans are being held. They have a glass-edge desperation to them, like cornered wyverns. He walks past them into the crumbling remains of the back room. Leliana follows, leaving the door open behind them.

“One had this on him.” She hands him vial of familiar brown-green liquid. “A poison of some sort.”

The glass is stoppered with a wax seal, but he can smell the paste of kasaanda berries and lotus petals, drying on his skin. He can feel the heat of the fire as the root mixture boils in its pot, and hear Tallis’s rough voice as she lists the next steps in the process.

He throws the saar-quamek down towards the mountain. He doesn’t wait to hear the glass shatter before he leaves.

 

He hunts giants in the Emerald Graves and undead in the Exalted Plains. He buys drinks for all his Chargers when Stitches shacks up with the Inquisition’s Quartermaster. He runs errands for nobles and captures a keep in Crestwood. Josephine starts inviting him to her tea luncheons with Vivienne and Leliana again. 

 

“We’ve found where the Wardens are holed up,” he tells Dorian.

That gets him to put his book down. “Some terrible Maker-forsaken corner, I’m sure. The Kokari Wilds? The Anderfels? Orlais?”

“Not far off,” he chuckles. “The Western Approach.”

“Ah,” Dorian says. “Sand. And Madame de Fer maintains the same objections that saved her from the Hissing Wastes, I suppose?”

“Hey, you got to to skip Crestwood because of the rain, big guy. And _I_ don’t get to beg off any of these trips, doesn’t matter how unpleasant.”

Dorian waves his hand airly. “As if you would pass up an opportunity to ride around bare chested in the sun, or slog through the rain as it plasters your shirt to your body. You’re vain, Ashkaari.”

“You’re the one who notices,” he says. “Come on, Vint. It’ll actually be warm there.”

The sigh Dorian heaves is entirely theatrical. “If you insist.”

“I heard there might be dragons out there, too,” he wheedles.

Dorian laughs. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m dedicated.”

“I’m well aware.” Is it calculated, the way Dorian always seems to be looking up at him through his eyelashes? 

“I like what you did with the khol today,” he says.

“I’m glad someone here appreciates the finer things.” Dorian preens for a moment, then his expression sobers. “You know, I never properly thanked you.”

“What for? Drinking your tea? Dragging you out into the inclement weather?” 

Dorian shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “For retrieving my birthright from that Orlesian snake. You didn’t need to.”

“That?” It hasn’t exactly been on his mind lately. “That was months ago.”

“So you can see why it’s embarrassing that I’ve been so remiss.” Dorian bows formally, one hand behind his back. “I appreciate the time you spent on such a menial errand.”

“It was no problem, really.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Dorian fiddles with a buckle on his sleeve. 

“You don’t like the optics, do you?” The things humans come up with. “Ma’am told me there were rumors about why exactly I did it.”

Dorian looks evasive. “It’s been suggested that I might have undue influence over you, yes.” 

He leans on the bookshelf, amused. “Last week you told me that scandalous behavior is as essential to you survival as food, water, or warming charms on your boots.”

“I was talking about helping Krem teach Dalish the unofficial verses of the Tevne national anthem, not about something that actually matters.” Dorian’s prim tone can’t mask the flush on his cheeks. “Maker knows people already have enough to say about out friendship. Even these evening interruptions of my research are a risk.”

That sounds bad. “Someone giving you shit? You know Cassandra’d be happy to knock some heads together.”

“Nothing like that,” Dorian assures him. “I mean-- well, Sera likes to tease, and your Chargers aren’t known for the subtlety of their jokes. I’m afraid that correcting them about the nature of our relationship has only fanned the flames. Rocky is genuinely convinced we’re fucking in secret.”

He turns that over in his mind. Dorian spins around and starts stacking his books on his chair so that Helisma won’t shelve them again.

“They haven’t mentioned it to me,” he says.

Dorian sighs. “Then they do possess among them an ounce of mercy.”

“I can talk to them, if you want. Let them know they’re crossing a line.”

“No, thank you. If you heard some of the things Grim’s implied I’m quite certain I’d die of embarrassment.” He watches Dorian wrap a cloak around his shoulders, preparing to leave.

There’s a southern saying-- curiosity killed the cat. He moves between Dorian and the stairs, just slightly.

“Is it jokes about your sex life in general that bother you?” he asks. “Or just about you and me?”

Dorian starts to speak, and then swallows the words. His eyes go to the ravens on the floor above them, to the flickering light of the torches on the walls. 

“I only wanted to thank you for the favor, Ashkaari. Let’s forget the rest of this.” He takes a uncertain step towards the stairs, stopping again as he comes within arm’s length of Bull.

A year ago, Bull would have let him by and never said a word about it again. Five years ago, he would have filed the information away to report back. Hissrad would have poked and prodded and considered all the ways to use it. Ashkaari would only have sought to understand.

He is none of them now.

“I don’t want to.”

Finally Dorian looks at him. His eyes glimmer in the glow from the torches and his lips twitch like he wants to say something flippant.

Bull closes the distance between them, and he can feel the deep breath that Dorian takes. He puts a hand on the small of Dorian’s back. 

“Tell me about these rumors,” he says. “About your undue influence over me.”

“There are terrible gossips in your Inquisition,” Dorian murmurs.

He takes Dorian’s left hand and brings it slowly to his lips. He can feel Dorian’s pulse racing. “Would it be so bad if they were true?”

That’s when Dorian kisses him.


	9. Chapter 9

“I understand why you’re angry,” says the Warden. Her skin looks wrong in the shifting green light.

“We are physically in the Fade,” he says, jaw tight, hands on his ax. “Qunari don’t even dream, I’m not supposed to be here.”

“None of us are,” the Warden agrees. “So maybe we should put off killing each other until after we find a way out? Just a suggestion.”

Sera hisses curses as she turns in watchful circles, an arrow ready on her half-drawn bow. Dorian and Vivienne look less frightened, but they are both tense, ready. He lowers his axe.

“And you’ve been here before, right?” Hawke is trying and failing to look nonchalant. Maybe they think it’s expected of them, being a Champion or whatever. 

“I don’t exactly remember any of it,” he says.

“Pity,” says Hawke. “So, which way is out?”

 

He’s not shocked that a demon finds them. It sounds just as wretched and wrong as he was afraid it would. The Nightmare has special words for each of them, but it takes a particular liking to him, it seems.

He can almost feel it breathing down his neck as it whispers. “So much on your shoulders, Hissrad,” it croons. “So many choices, and all of them end in death. The only question is how many of your people you take down before you go.”

“Fuck off,” he growls.

“You’ve turned your back on the people who raised you, betrayed everything you were taught was right-- how long before the madness takes you and you turn again, hm? Maybe all I need to do is sit back and wait.” It chuckles, a sound like bone on glass. “I won’t though. There are so many open doors to your mind, little liar. Which should I walk through?”

He cleaves a demon in half. It looks like Krem, blue-lipped and accusing, the marks of his own hands dark on his fragile human neck.

“Chief,” the demon mocks. “They trust you, the fools. Look how easily you cut them down. Your own men.”

Another demon falls in front of him, Josephine’s gold chain hitting the stone with the sound of a boulder crashing down.

“My Lord Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, an adder curled in new silk sheets. She cast you off before you got too close, for all the good that will do her.” The nightmare laughs coldly. “She’ll know the truth of what you are, in her last, terrified moments. We both know already, of course. A monster.”

“Ashkaari,” it cries in Tama’s voice, Fenaaq a smoldering block of ice cradled in her arms. The demon makes her weep in a way she never had, desperate and choking, smoke filling her lungs as the child burns. “Ashkaari, do you remember your first betrayal? Poor little Fenaaq. He never made it through training, did you know? His bones are in the dust east of Par Vollen, forgotten. You are the only one who remembers his name, and you murdered him, as surely as the Arvaarad you sent him to.”

And then, silence. It taunts Vivienne, Sera, the Warden, Dorian. He knows because he can hear them respond, see their shoulders shake. But he cannot hear it. Thank Koslun for that. He thanks the Maker too, for good measure, and the Elven gods, and he’s considering thanking the old Vint dragons for its absence when it bursts back in like an inferno.

“Here’s a new one. I do so love finding new fears, Amatus,” it whispers. “He’s so afraid for you. The fool is not afraid _of_ you, as he should be. No, the little terror has learned to love in a way he never thought possible. And it will be the death of him.”

“Out,” he snarls. “Out of my head.”

It fades away with another nasty chuckle, just as two massive pride demons stomp into view.

But somehow, they survive. Somehow, the beast does not consume them. Somehow, they reach a rift, and Dorian’s hand tugs him through when he looks back at the Warden, sword raised against an impossible foe. Somehow, he still has enough control over his voice to speak to the people on the other side, and enough control of his legs to take him back to the Inquisition camp. He’s never setting foot in Griffon Wing Keep again.

 

Dorian is quiet for days as they all trudge back east. He rides close by, never quite out of sight, but says nothing until the foggy rim of the Frostbacks have solidified into real, if distant, mountains. 

He shows up, unexpected, just after sunset, letting himself into the tent Josephine had specially commissioned, emblazoned with the Inquisition’s sword and eye. He waits quietly as the last scout finishes her report and vanishes.

“I’ve been staying with Sera,” Dorian says after a long while. “I’ll probably go back to her tonight.”

“Nightmares?” he asks sympathetically, and pulls a flask of whiskey from the pack he’d stashed it in. Dorian finally closes the distance between them, but when he reaches for the offered drink, his hands linger.

“The Fade is not a popular vacation spot,” Dorian admits. “And it’s not somewhere she ever saw herself winding up, no matter how temporary. I think this will haunt her for a long time.”

He traces nonsense patterns across the back of Dorian’s hands. “There’s this old Qunari training exercise, sort of a meditation, where you release fear through physical pain.”

“Any particular type of pain, or will stubbing your toe over and over do the trick?” 

“The Tamassrans used a special flogger, usually, but any old training sword could get the job done.” He shrugs. “D’you think that’s something I should suggest to her?”

“No,” Dorian says firmly.

“What about you, then?”

Dorian gives him an assessing look. “I’ve visited the Fade before in dreams, and Madame de Fer and I have had some lively philosophical conversations this past week. I am, and I was a bit surprised to realize this, fine.”

He nods to himself. He hadn’t seen Dorian visit the healers’ tents in the past few days either. “That’s good.”

“But you’re not.”

He looks around his tent. It’s warm, dry, and well lit. He’s eaten some of the rations the cooks brought him and taken the potion for his leg, and changed into fresh clothes. The cot, sized for him, is covered in cushions and furs. He hasn’t slept in a few nights, but there have been letters to write and plans to make. “I’m fine, big guy.”

“That’s utter bollocks.” Dorian’s grip tightens on his hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to you before now.”

“Sera needed you.” 

To his surprise, Dorian’s tone is gentle. “So do you.”

And that’s where the danger lies, of course. Guilt prickles on the back of his neck, and he recognizes the source, deep in his training. He lets it wash over him, and then puts it away. “You’re here now.”

“I am,” Dorian agrees with a smile. “Why don’t we make the most of that?”

Bull lets himself be led to the cot, and waits patiently as Dorian runs warm, firm hands over the knots of muscle in his shoulders and knee, leaning into the tension and ache until it fades almost completely away. It takes a long time for either of them to fall asleep, but it’s a peaceful wait, with Dorian’s heartbeat steady against his own.


	10. Chapter 10

It’s good to see his own castle. It really is his own, and he wonders how the Orlesian nobles who employed his Chargers in the past feel about him setting up a holy army on their border. They never particularly liked him, even when they paid him to do their dirty work.

He’s seen some of them around, and it seems to be even odds whether they pretend to know and love him or allow themselves to be presented as if they were strangers.

He’d like to kick them all out of Skyhold, but it’s his base, not his domain. It’s the home of the Inquisition, and the patchwork group of farmers who’d come to him in Haven are a real army now, and it doesn’t seem like the recruits are going to stop appearing. They’ve proven themselves capable of handling all the shit the world is throwing at them, from Empresses to demons, and people trust them. People trust _him_ , and when he’s surrounded by people who he trusts to keep him in check, it’s not impossible to bear.

 

It seems like Skyhold is overrun with children these days. He’s not entirely clear where all of them came from. Some are definitely the kids of their now-permanent noble entourage, and he has a great time comparing Dorian to the little Orlesian brats and watching him sputter.

A few of the kids he remembers from the Fereldan Hinterlands, back when he was just trying to feed everyone in Haven and make sure the little ones had blankets for the cold. They remember him too, and he has to start stuffing his pockets with candies again, because kids pass information about sweets more quickly than any professional spy ring.

It’s the vashoth kids that really get him, though. Their parents keep them away from him at first. Josephine spun some story about loyalty and Andraste and a test of faith, but there’s a bone-deep reaction to Ben Hassrath, even one as publicly disavowed as him, in any former member of the Qun.

But growing things, whether they have fears or not, all love to listen to stories, and he knows some really good stories. He sits with them and tells the old tales, letting them weave new endings and rename the old heroes, and he remembers gardening in Par Vollen and he is happy.

Josephine has to pull him in from the gardens at least once a day for more official meetings, and all the siblings in the world couldn’t have prepared her for the disappointed faces of fifteen small children, because she always promises to return him as soon as possible. She’s always sincere as well.

 

Dorian has installed himself in the official apartment of the Inquisitor while he wasn’t looking. He looks at home there, lounging on silk sheets that were a gift from some rich noble. Dorian keeps the balcony doors closed and the fire roaring, and the shelves are overflowing with books.

More blankets than he had before, as well. When he wakes up in a cold sweat, the nightmare demon still grasping at the edges of his mind, he doesn’t appreciate that. But Dorian’s a light sleeper. 

Strange that magic can make him feel safer now, but strange or not, they develop a routine that steadies him, even on the worst nights. Dorian casts wards on the windows, the door, even the bed. He brews, quick as magic allows, a cup of assam for each of them, and they sit and talk or don’t talk about it, whichever feels easier. When the tea is finished, Dorian runs soft glowing fingers over his hand, his leg, his face, each part of him that aches, softening the tension just enough for him to sleep. Before he drifts completely away, the final act, soft and silent, is a kiss. The nightmares don’t return after that, maybe chased away by the sheer novelty of what he’s found here.

When Dorian is the one to sit bolt upright, fingers crackling with magic, fear on his lips, then he’s the one who brews the tea. He can’t do it as quickly, and he prefers it darker, but the expression on Dorian’s face when he takes a sip is always worth the wait.

 

He’s not comfortable around Morrigan. She’s scary, in a sexy way, but also in a way that suggests that she knows secret, ancient magics and would absolutely not hesitate to use it on anyone who annoyed her. So he’s been trying not to annoy her. But the fact that she can turn into a dragon now is enough to overcome the way his skin crawls when she looks straight at him. For a little while at least.

“Is that a normal thing for mothers to teach their children?” he asks Dorian quietly as they ride back towards Skyhold, her patience for his question expended. “How to turn into a dragon? Maybe I missed out.”

“It’s not normal, no.” Dorian’s deep in thought. “This changes everything I thought I knew about the Elven gods. Which, I admit, was far from everything there is to know, but Mythal is still alive! In some form, at least. It’s fascinating! I wonder if others maintain similar bargains.”

“I want to be a dragon,” he says.

“I know, Amatus. Do you think Morrigan would be willing to send letters to her mother for me? Do you think she would be able to?” Dorian twists around to pull paper and a pencil from his saddlebags. “It would have to be perfect. How does one address an Elven goddess? Surely not _My Lady._ Your Eminence, perhaps?”

He lets Dorian’s horse outpace his own. He knows some Tevene, and he tracked down a translation, one night when he had been totally unable to sleep, so he knows his first thought was correct. 

He’s been Ashakaari, Hissrad, The Iron Bull, the Herald, Lord Inquisitor. But there are names that aren’t titles. Fenaaq had called him Tama. A name like Amatus is just as precious, just as heavy to bear. It feels true, and touches something just as deep in the center of his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! _If_ I write a part 2, it will include the final battle and also Trespasser, but Corypheus was never the focus of this story. The ending isn't the end of the game, it's the end of this arc in Bull's life and struggle with his identity. He's got a new one now! A stable one, based in community and support and love, and for me, that's where he comes full circle.
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr (acheesecakewrites) or twitter (teddyzinga)!


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